There are fashions in gods and on average about only
point-oh-two-three percent of the six trillion divinities
which every twenty-three seconds are loosed on the heedless
oblivious cosmos become something someone remembers
and uses for something to pray to, but who can keep track.
The others are made to vamoose and they do not come back.
When inevitably they discover they’ve quickly spent all
their apportionment of their supposed irresistibly gorgeous
inimitability to precious little avail, they get thrown in the god-
pail and hauled into something that looks like the mouth of
what Jonah jumped into when he met that whale, but is really
the portal to random dimensions into which they’ll fail even
worse than they’ve already done. Then Rahn-Syd, the dog-god
of Flatulence slated by fate to be one of these misfires, decided
if fate was as hateful as that, he would conjure up something
untoward to throw into the infinite vat into which they were
destined to fly and to fester: he was the dog-god of farts,
after all, and he’d learned the supernal fine arts of producing
a literally nonstop onslaught of gas which he aimed at the pass
through which they would have vanished had he not with one
bang (as big as the one that’s hypothesized to have made us)
quite entirely banished it into the void with the rest of its
component stuff. Of course the new universe come into being
quite awfully stank. For that they had Rahn-Syd to thank.
But only I know it. Witness the teleological power of the poet.